Forced Marriage of the Bratva (Rusnak Bratva #5)

Chapter 1 – Sasha

The cabin hums with the soft, steady rhythm I know better than my own heartbeat. Air hisses through the vents, the lights glow gold against polished leather, and the whole plane feels like mine for a moment, calm and waiting.

I smooth my jacket, check the sharp line of my skirt, and glance at my reflection in the galley mirror. Blonde hair swept back into a sleek twist, lipstick precise, posture perfect. Blue eyes clear. A face that photographs well even when I’m not trying.

It’s the same ritual before every flight. Composure. Control. Effortless polish.

The first passenger steps into first class, and my smile slides into place, practiced but warm.

“Good evening, welcome aboard.”

He blinks when he sees me—like he wasn’t expecting someone like me. They never are. His smile softens, a little too eager, and I gesture him toward 2A with a flick of my hand.

“Thank you,” he says, eyes lingering.

I move on.

A woman comes next, all diamonds and silk. Her gaze flicks down my body and back up again, measuring, calculating. Admiration tucked behind disinterest. I know that look. I’ve seen it in hotel lobbies, cocktail bars, customs lines. Envy, curiosity. The silent kind.

“Welcome aboard,” I say, my tone the same.

By the time the third passenger arrives, the rhythm has settled. Greetings. Gestures. Contact without closeness. My armor is beauty, and I wear it like a uniform.

“Your seat is just this way.”

The man follows my hand, eyes dipping to the length of my legs as I walk ahead. He’s not the first tonight. He won’t be the last.

I’m used to it. The stares, the admiration. I’ve built my life on it—my job depends on it. There’s a thrill in knowing I set the tone of the cabin. That when I smile, people soften, and when I move, people look. It’s not just the way I look. It’s the way I carry it.

I lean up to stow a bag, feel the heat of a gaze on the curve of my calf, and keep my expression smooth. Smile. Step back. Click of heels against the aisle.

They can look. There’s nothing wrong with looking.

But I’m untouchable. Always untouchable.

I’m not above flirting occasionally, but I lose interest whenever things are about to get serious.

I may have broken a few hearts along the way, but hey, that’s life.

We can’t always have everything we want, and I’m that thing that people always want but almost always can’t have.

The boarding door opens again, and this time it isn’t just another passenger.

This one catches my eye.

He fills the doorway. Tall. Broad-shouldered.

Perfectly tailored coat draped him like it was cut with his body in mind.

His dress pants fall in sharp lines, his polo simple but expensive, the kind of understated wealth that whispers instead of shouts.

I catch the glint of a watch on his wrist—sleek, rare, worth more than I’ll make this year.

His hair is brown, perfectly imperfect, messy waves that fall across his forehead like they don’t care who’s looking.

Everything about him is calculated. Intentional.

He looks up, and I meet his eyes. Gorgeous. Light gray. Sharp, cold, and steady. They flick to me the way a match catches flame, leaving heat behind. He looks at me with the same admiration that the others do. But there’s something else in this haze. A certain heat that sears my skin.

Or wait…is it just me?

I’ve seen men like this before. Old money, polished confidence, Masculine steel in their posture and their accents. First class is full of them. But none of them has ever branded himself into me the way this one does.

His gaze lingers, a smirk curling his mouth like he already knows me. Like he knows everything I’m thinking.

“Welcome aboard,” I say, steady, smooth.

“Thank you.” His voice is low, touched with an accent, smooth in a way that almost feels dangerous. Russian. His tone makes the words sound less like courtesy and more like a private exchange.

“May I see your boarding pass?”

He doesn’t hand it over right away. Instead, he watches me, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, as though he’s considering whether to obey. Finally, he slips the card between two fingers and offers it lazily. His hand is steady, his expression unreadable.

“3C,” I say, glancing at it. “This way, please.”

I turn, guiding him down the aisle. My heels click softly against the carpet, my smile practiced and perfect. I can feel him behind me, the weight of his presence like static in the air.

We reach his seat, wide and waiting. I gesture. “Here we are. If you need assistance with your luggage…”

He slips into the seat like it was built for him, movements unhurried, deliberate. His wrist shifts as he settles, and the light catches the watch there. He screams effortless wealth, and I’m like a deer caught in his headlights. I need to hurry the fuck away from this man.

I’m about to step back when he looks up at me again. “Champagne.”

Of course. Men like him always ask for champagne. “Right away,” I say, tone polished, professional.

I turn quickly, my heels clicking down the aisle, and busy myself in the galley. I shouldn’t notice the way my pulse has quickened, or how my hands move faster than usual as I pour the pale gold liquid into a crystal flute. He’s just another passenger. That’s all.

When I return, he’s lounging back, one arm draped over the armrest, legs stretched out in a way that takes up more space than it should. I bend slightly to set the glass on his tray.

His eyes dip, not to the champagne—but to my name tag. His mouth curves as he reads it aloud. “Sasha.”

The sound of it on his tongue makes me swallow before I can stop myself.

He sees it. Of course he does. His smile deepens, sharp and knowing. “That’s all,” he says lightly, reaching for the glass.

I turn, ready to retreat to safer ground, when his voice follows me, low and unhurried.

“For now.”

The words chase me down the aisle, curling warm against my skin long after I’ve stepped away.

For the first time in years, I feel rattled. Out of control. It’s so unlike me.

I hang back in the galley, fingers smoothing down the hem of my jacket, though it’s already perfect.

My reflection wavers faintly in the stainless steel paneling—composed, polished, untouchable.

That’s who I am. That’s who I’ve trained myself to be.

And yet, one man with gray eyes and a smirk has me catching my breath like a rookie on her first flight.

The plane climbs, nose tipping upward as we ascend into a velvet-dark sky. The soft chime of the seatbelt sign fades, and the usual hum of first class resumes. Passengers adjust their seats, tuck blankets over their laps, order more drinks with hushed ease.

A hand lifts. A female passenger, two rows up. I gather myself and cross over, the professional mask sliding neatly into place. She’s seated dangerously close to him, and I force my gaze to stay fixed on her, not drifting sideways where I can feel him sitting. Waiting. Watching.

The passenger murmurs her request to me, and I almost don’t hear it because I’m so distracted.

“Of course,” I say to the woman, adjusting her pillow, pulling a blanket into place. My smile is flawless, the practiced kind that puts people at ease. But my pulse betrays me, drumming against my throat as though it knows something I don’t.

And then—inevitably—I feel it. The weight of his stare. Heavy. Like I’m the only thing on this plane worth looking at.

I straighten, ready to turn, when out of the corner of my eye I see him lift a hand. A small, almost imperceptible gesture. A signal.

Summoning me.

I turn to leave, pretending like I don’t see his raised hand, when his voice stops me. Low. Sweet. My name on his tongue like it’s something rare.

“Sasha.”

It’s ridiculous how easily it catches me. How much I feel it. I draw in a breath before facing him, mask firmly in place. “Yes?”

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t seem like a man who ever needs to. He leans back in his seat, one arm draped over the rest, posture loose in that effortless, aristocratic way only old money seems to master. Gray eyes fix on mine, unwavering.

Lev Rusnak. That’s the name I glimpsed on his boarding pass. It suits him. I don’t ever hold on to a passenger’s name. Thousands have come and gone. But this name—Lev Rusnak—sticks like a tattoo.

“What are you doing when we land?” he asks, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Not the first time I’ve been asked. Not the hundredth. But the certainty in his voice—like he’s not really asking at all—knocks me slightly off balance.

“I’ll be occupied,” I reply smoothly, stepping back into the practiced ease of my role. A polite smile. A line drawn.

Something shifts in his gaze, sharp amusement sparking there. His lips tilt, slow and deliberate. “No. You’re having dinner with me.”

“What? No.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

A startled laugh escapes before I can help it, and I shake my head, standing taller. “Your cockiness won’t take you anywhere.”

Lev doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. He only laughs, low and warm, like he’s already won. “We’ll see.”

And then, as though I’m dismissed, he picks up the crystal flute of champagne and drinks. Smooth, unbothered, certain.

I move on, but the echo of his words trails after me, clinging to my skin like the faintest turbulence beneath a smooth flight path.

The hours pass in measured beats—service trays, refilled glasses, whispered requests. The kind of rhythm I know by heart. And yet tonight, something is different.

Everywhere I go, I feel it. His gaze. Not obvious, not crude—Lev Rusnak doesn’t look like the type who stares.

But I sense it, steady as gravity, each time I move through the cabin.

A glance over the top of his glass. A flick of gray eyes when I lean to tuck a blanket for another passenger.

The kind of attention that lingers, even when I pretend not to notice.